American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

ANNA MARIA WELLS.

Biographical Sketch.

MISS FOSTER, now Mrs. Wells, was born about the year 1794, in Gloucester, Massachusetts; but was educated in Boston, and has lived there ever since. She is a highly accomplished woman; possesses a well-furnished mind, and as admirable a talent for drawing and music as for poetry. She was also, when young, no less distinguished for her exquisite beauty, than for her genius and accomplishments. Her poems were published in a volume in 1831, but are not so generally known as they deserve to be. The specimens we subjoin are delightful for their touching simplicity, purity of thought, and fervour of feeling. Mrs. Wells is a sister of Mrs. Frances S. Osgood; who, when a child, was her loved and loving pupil, as we gather from a verse in the following sweet strain of pleasant but half-mournful memory.

MY CLOSET.

WITHIN my chamber's bounds it lay; For years it was my haunt by day; There half the summer night I'd stay; With lingering pleasure. I loved it chiefly that 't was mine; There first my fancy learn'd to twine Poetic flowers, —not quite divine, — A hidden treasure.

It was the quietest of nooks; — How well I can recall its looks! One side just held my hoard of books, A dear deposit;

One window, veil'd by curtains fair, Gave entrance to the summer air; Beside it stood my desk and chair: My pretty closet.

When memory's harp had ceased to ring, And vainly I essay'd the string, There thought could oft its music bring, With sweet revealing. And there at lonely hour of night, I used to watch the moonbeams bright, Throwing their wreaths of silver light Along the ceiling.

In summer, when the fields were green, And bending boughs my window-screen, Ah me! how happy I have been, Free from intrusion; While oft of flattery's pleasing snare, And oft of hope's delusions fair, Reflection taught me to beware, In that seclusion.

There, with one friend, delightful flew Hours of sweet converse not a few; The snug retreat, 't would hold but two, So narrow was it; And yet a cozy place to sit, Though leaning back the shelves we hit, And forward scarce avoided it; My little closet.

It was the homestead of my mind; For there its thoughts were first combined, And elsewhere I shall never find Just such another!

'T was there I ran and closed the door 'Gainst one who ill such usage bore, A playful child, —ah! now no more — My petted brother!

And there with mingled joy and pain, To con their tasks and con again, I taught my little sisters twain, For ever busy; Just out the closet door they sat, And mischief oft they would be at; I loved them dearly for all that, Fanny and Lizzie!

There, when my heart was sick with grief, Finding its youthful joys so brief, In prayer I sought a sure relief, Denied me never. Ah! sad to my young heart the day, When, lingering still with fond delay, I wept, and turn'd me thence away,Alas! for ever.

MORNING.

OF all his starry honours shorn, Away old night is stealing; And upward springs the laughing morn, A joyous life revealing.

Blue-eyed she comes with tresses spread, And breath than incense sweeter; The mountains glow beneath her tread, Light clouds float on to meet her.

The tall corn briskly stirs its sheaves; A thousand buds have burst The soft green calyx, that their leaves To greet her may be first.

The flowers, that lay all night in tears, Look upward one by one; And pearls each tiny petal bears, An offering to the sun.

With beads the trembling grass is dress'd, — Each thin spire hath its string, Scattered in mist, as from her nest The ground-bird flaps her wing.

The lake obeys the zephyr's will, While, as by fingers press'd, The bending locust-buds distil Their sweetness o'er its breast.

With busy sounds the valley rings; The ploughman yokes his team; The fisher trims his light boat's wings, And skims the brightening stream.

The gentle kine forsake the shed, And wait the milk-maid's call; The frighted squirrel hoars her tread, And scuds along the wall.

Scattering the night-clouds as in scorning, Bright pour the new-born rays; There's more of life in one sweet morning, Than in a thousand days.

TO MARY, SLEEPING.

SLEEP on, sleep on! while yet thy sleep is sweet, Nor scared by phantoms of world-weary care, False pleasure, fear, or still delusive hope! Sweeter the slumber that, perchance, for thee Thy guardian angel tints with dreamy bliss. That cherub-smile speaks not of gross delight;

And haply on thy sinless vision now Celestial forms may gleam, like morning mists That yet shall brighten into perfect day; Or to thy tender organs suited, soft As breath of angels, music floats around; —Melodious whisperings, that half unfold The harmonies enfranchised spirits know. Then, if such visions do thy slumbers bless, Sleep on, dear, sinless, happy dreamer, sleep; For I would not the short-lived charm disturb, Not e'en to meet thine eye's sad earnestness; Those eyes that shed upon thy baby face A tender, holy, melancholy light, — Like seraph Pity guarding Innocence. And yet more radiant shall their lustre be When strong by struggle, eloquent by thought, The mind shall dart its deeper meanings thence; Or pure devotion's wrapt intensity Look through their upward light.

How soft the touch Of thy dark silky hair! May vanity, That feasts upon, and saps the fairest flowers, Blight not thy spirit's sweet development. But may thy heart be artless as thy smile; Like those clear eyes thy soul be luminous; And when, at last, upspringing to its God, Be freed from earthly stain, and rise to Heaven Sweet as the balmy breath of infant sleep.

"WE'LL NEVER PART AGAIN."

AND say'st thou so? And canst thou lift That veil in mercy cast Between thy destiny and thee, The future and the past?

Say, is it Passion's breathing vow? Or Friendship's promise given? Or utterance of paternal love, The purest under heaven?

Oh! if thy other self be now Beside thee, —if thy own That one loved hand may clasp; thy ear Drink in that one loved tone;

Enjoy the fleeting hour, —forget That earth has change or pain;—But dare not whisper in thy bliss, "We'll never part again."

Love's roses droop ere morn hath fled; The violet smiles through tears; The tall tree scatters to the blast The brightest leaf it bears.

Each day, each hour, love's nearest ties The hand of death may sever; And they who live and love the best, Fate oft divides for ever.

The friend so closely link'd to thee, By faith so fondly plighted,—The world's cold cautions intervene, And ye are disunited.

The most impassion'd love that warms The purest, truest heart, Or time, or grief, or wrong may change, And break the links apart.

Thy children —o'er their opening minds Watch, watch with heart untired; The ceaseless vigil keep, by hope, By love, by Heaven inspired.

Oh! beautiful the daily toil To work that priceless mine! But deemest thou its golden ore Refined shall still be thine?

Dreamer! Those laughing boys that round Thy hearth unconscious play, — Voices already in their hearts Are whispering, "Come away!"

Though warmly smile beam back to smile, And answering heart to heart, They meet in gladness who too oft Have only met to part.

Then bind not earthly ties too close, But hope let Heaven sustain; There and there only mayst thou say, "We'll never part again!"

THE SEA-BIRD.

SEA-BIRD! haunter of the wave, Happy o'er its crest to hover; Half-engulph'd where yawns the cave Billows form in rolling over.

Sea-bird! seeker of the storm, In its shriek thou dost rejoice; Sending from thy bosom warm, Answer shriller than its voice.

Bird of nervous wing and bright, Flashing silvery to the sun, Sporting with the sea-foam white, When will thy wild course be done?

Whither tends it? Has the shore No alluring haunt for thee? Nook with tangled vines run o'er, Scented shrub, or leafy tree?

Is the purple sea-weed rarer Than the violet of spring? Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer Than the apple's blossoming?

Shady grove and sunny slope, Seek but these, and thou shalt meet Birds not born with storm to cope, Hermits of retirement sweet.

Where no winds too rudely swell, But, in whispers as they pass, Of the fragrant flow'ret tell, Hidden in the tender grass.

There, the mock-bird sings of love; There, the robin builds his nest; There, the gentle-hearted dove, Brooding, takes her blissful rest.

Sea-bird, stay thy rapid flight: —Gone! — where dark waves foam and dash, Like a lone star on the night From afar his white wings flash!

He obeyeth God's behest: Each and all some mission fill; Some, the tempest born to breast, Some, to worship and be still.

If to struggle with the storm On life's ever-changing sea, Where cold mists enwrap the form, My harsh destiny must be;

Sea-bird! thus may I abide Cheerful the allotment given; And above the ruffled tide Soar at last, like thee, to Heaven!

THE WHITE HARE.

IT was the Sabbath eve —we went, My little girl and I, intent The twilight hour to pass, Where we might hear the waters flow, And scent the freighted winds that blow Athwart the vernal grass.

In darker grandeur, as the day Stole scarce perceptibly away, The purple mountain stood, Wearing the young moon as a crest:The sun, half sunk in the far west, Seem'd mingling with the flood.

The cooling dews their balm distill'd; A holy joy our bosoms thrill'd; Our thoughts were free as air; And by one impulse moved, did we Together pour, instinctively, Our songs of gladness there.

The green-wood waved its shade hard by, While thus we wove our harmony: Lured by the mystic strain, A snow-white hare, that long had been Peering from forth her covert green, Came bounding o'er the plain.

Her beauty 't was a joy to note, The pureness of her downy coat, Her wild, yet gentle eye,

The pleasure that, despite her fear, Had led the timid thing so near, To list our minstrelsy!

All motionless, with head inclined, She stood, as if her heart divined The impulses of ours, — Till the last note had died, and then Turn'd half-reluctantly again, Back to her green-wood bowers.

Once more the magic sounds we tried — Again the hare was seen to glide From out her sylvan shade; Again —as joy had given her wings, Fleet as a bird she forward springs Along the dewy glade.

Go, happy thing! disport at will, —Take thy delight o'er vale and hill, Or rest in leafy bower: The harrier may beset thy way, The cruel snare thy feet betray! Enjoy thy little hour!

We know not, and we ne'er may know, The hidden springs of joy and woe That deep within thee lie. The silent workings of thy heart — They almost seem to have a part With our humanity!

THE FUTURE.

THE flowers, the many flowers That all along the smiling valley grew, While the sun lay for hours, Kissing from off their drooping lids the dew;

They, to the summer air No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield; Vainly, to bind her hair, The village maiden seeks them in the field.

The breeze, the gentle breeze That wander'd like a frolic child at play, Loitering 'mid blossom'd trees, Trailing their stolen sweets along its way, No more adventuresome, Its whisper'd love is to the violet given; The boisterous North has come, And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven.

The brook, the limpid brook That prattled of its coolness as it went Forth from its rocky nook, Leaping with joy to be no longer pent, — Its pleasant song is hush'd;The sun no more looks down upon its play; — Freely, where once it gush'd, The mountain torrent drives its noisy way.

The hours, the youthful hours, When in the cool shade we were wont to lie, Idling with fresh cull'd flowers, In dreams that ne'er could know reality; — Fond hours, but half enjoy'd, Like the sweet summer breeze they pass'd away, And dear hopes were destroy'd, Like buds that die before the noon of day.

Young life, young turbulent life, If, like the stream, it take a wayward course, 'T is lost 'mid folly's strife, — O'erwhelm'd, at length, by passion's curbless force.

Nor deem youth's buoyant hours For idle hopes or useless musings given: Who dreams away his powers, The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven.

TO THE WHIPPOORWILL.

THE shades of eve are gathering slowly round, And silence hangs o'er meadow, grove, and hill, Save one lone voice, that, with continuous sound, Calls through the deep'ning twilight —Whippoorwill.

Faintly is heard the whispering mountain breeze; Faintly the rushing brook that turn'd the mill; Hush'd is the song of birds —the hum of bees; —The hour is all thine own, sadWhippoorwill!

No more the woodman's axe is heard to fall; No more the ploughman sings with rustic skill; As if earth's echoes woke no other call, Again, and yet again, comes Whippoorwill.

Alas! enough! before, my heart was sad; Sweet bird! thou mak'st it sadder, sadder still. Enough of mourning has my spirit had; I would not hear thee mourn, poor Whippoorwill.

Thoughts of my distant home upon me press, And thronging doubts, and fears of coming ill; My lone heart feels a deeper loneliness, Touch'd with that plaintive burthen —Whippoorwill.

Sing to the village lass, whose happy home Lies in yon quiet vale, behind the hill; But, doom'd far, far from all I love to roam, Sing not to me, oh gentle Whippoorwill.

Loved ones! my children! Ah, they cannot hear My voice that calls to them! An answer shrill, A shrill, unconscious answer, rises near, Repeating, still repeating Whippoorwill!

Another name my lips would breathe; —but then Such tender memories all my bosom fill, Back to my sorrowing breast it sinks again! Hush, or thou'lt break my heart, sad Whippoorwill!

HOPE.

THERE sits a woman on the brow Of yonder rocky height; There, gazing o'er the waves below, She sits from morn till night.

She heeds not how the mad waves leap Along the rugged shore; She looks for one upon the deep, She never may see more.

As morning twilight faintly gleams, Her shadowy form I trace; Wrapt in the silvery mist, she seems The Genius of the place!

Far other once was Rosalie; Her smile was glad, her voice Like music o'er a summer sea, Said to the heart, —"rejoice!"

O'er her pure thoughts did sorrow fling Perchance a shade, 't would pass, Lightly as glides the breath of Spring Along the bending grass.

A sailor's bride 't was hers to be: —Wo to the faithless main! Nine summers since he went to sea, And ne'er returned again.

But long, where all is wreck'd beside, And every joy is chased, Long, long will lingering Hope abide Amid the dreary waste!

Nine years —though all had given him o'er, Her spirit doth not fail; And still she waits along the shore The never-coming sail.

On that high rock, abrupt and bare, Ever she sits, as now; The dews have damp'd her flowing hair, The sun has scorch'd her brow.

And every far-off sail she sees, And every passing cloud, Or white-wing'd sea-bird, on the breeze, She calls to it aloud.

The sea-bird answers to her cry; The cloud, the sail, float on; The hoarse wave mocks her misery, Yet is her hope not gone.

It cannot go; —with that to part, So long, so fondly nursed, So mingled with her faithful heart; That heart itself would burst.

When falling dews the clover steep, And birds are in their nest, And flower-buds folded up to sleep, And ploughmen gone to rest;

Down the rude track her feet have worn, — There scarce the goat may go, — Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn, Is seen descending slow.

But when the gray morn tints the sky, And lights that lofty peak, —With a strange lustre in her eye, A fever in her cheek,

Again she goes, untired, to sit And watch the livelong day; Nor till the star of eve is lit, E'er turns her steps away.

Hidden, and deep, and never dry, Or flowing, or at rest, A living spring of hope doth lie In every human breast.

All else may fail that soothes the heart, All, save that fount alone; With that and life at once we part, For life and hope are one!